


I need your help, Daddy, please be strong

by Arabwel



Series: Papa Don't Preach [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Chris Argent Is Not A Good Man, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dream Sex, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Just dreams and jerking off, Masturbation, No Underage Sex, No actual sex, Parent/Child Incest, Sex Pollen Aftermath, Underage Drinking, Wet Dream, but he tries, for americans, referenced allydia, referenced petopher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 11:56:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10786287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: He trails off helplessly and Allison sniffs a little. “I’m just like Kate.” She voices the thought that has been haunting her ever since the last vestiges of lust left her clear headed once again.“You’renothinglike Kate,” he snaps, his hold of her tightening. “You did not force him, sweetheart. You were both under the influence of whatever it was.”And she wonders if he is also reassuring himself, remembers the livid love bites on Lydia’s skin—but Lydia had looked so smug and satisfied, she’s known for ages Lydia thinks her dad is hot; and she knows that for all his compartmentalization, her dad carries his guilt on his sleeve.***Chris and Allison talk - and dream.





	I need your help, Daddy, please be strong

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Month of Masturbation, y''all! 
> 
> As always, if you see anything else I should tag in this fic please let me know. 
> 
> Big thanks to Triangulum and Toast for making this fic happen <3

Allison’s hands don’t tremble when she pours out a more than generous measure of whiskey from the bottle her father likes to think she doesn’t know about. The Macallan is almost as old as she is, a gorgeous amber color in the heavy glass tumbler that doesn’t see a lot of use. 

Compartmentalization is something she’s gotten to be good at; it’s not until she’s put the bottle away and is sitting down on the living room couch that she starts to shake, the reality of what happened only hours earlier hitting her hard. 

Her skin still tingles from the shower, from the hot water that washed away the pine needles and dirt, the dried sweat and... other fluids stuck to her skin the cool mountain stream didn’t take care of. 

Allison hates to admit that she’d been so tempted to use the shower head to get herself off again when she’d washed her pussy, sliding fingers inside herself to dredge out what come Peter hadn’t eaten out of her. 

The memory makes her shudder, of how he’d rolled her on her back when his knot had finally deflated, his mouth hot and eager on her despite the compulsion being gone. She shouldn’t have enjoyed it, shouldn’t have— 

The whiskey burns her tongue when she takes a deep gulp, too fast for such a fine drink. But it doesn’t burn away the memory of Peter telling her she didn’t want this, that her father would kill him. 

“Allison?” 

She starts, nearly dropping the glass. “Daddy?” 

The word comes out unbidden, her voice fragile. She remembers how Peter had goaded her, about _Daddy finding out_ , and she closes her eyes when her dad comes over to take the glass from her fingers, setting it on the table with a loud clink.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice full of concern as he sits down next to her, a careful hand coming to touch her shoulder. 

Allison shakes her head violently. “No, Daddy—” she can't make herself say it, can’t make the words come out of just how wrong this feels, how wrong she feels after what happened. 

“Did he hurt you?” her dad’s voice is hard but his touch remains gentle. 

She shakes her head violently: “No, Daddy,” she says and she feels so helpless, she wants her Daddy to make it all okay again but he can’t. “I... I hurt him,” she whispers and closes her eyes. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” her dad’s voice is soft and warm and Allison can’t hold back a sob when he pulls her into his arms, cradling her against his chest like she’s a little girl again, soul not yet stained by the violence and darkness of hunting life. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs into her hair, big hands stroking her back softly. “Allison, I…” 

He trails off helplessly and Allison sniffs a little. “I’m just like Kate.” She voices the thought that has been haunting her ever since the last vestiges of lust left her clear headed once again.

“You’re _nothing_ like Kate,” he snaps, his hold of her tightening. “You did not force him, sweetheart. You were both under the influence of whatever it was.”

And she wonders if he is also reassuring himself, remembers the livid love bites on Lydia’s skin—but Lydia had looked so smug and satisfied, she’s known for ages Lydia thinks her dad is hot; and she knows that for all his compartmentalization, her dad carries his guilt on his sleeve. 

“I pushed him down, Daddy,” she looks up at him, blinking away tears. His blue eyes search her face and she doesn’t know what it is that he is looking for, or what he finds in her expression. 

“Allison,” he says softly. “Trust me when I say Peter Hale would not stay down if he didn’t want to. S-sex pollen or no.” 

“I slapped him across the face,” she blurts out. 

“And he liked it, Princess,” he says reassuringly, dipping his head to kiss her forehead in a way that should feel wrong when she’s talking about—when she’s talking about sex, but it doesn’t.

“How do you know that?” she asks him, voice thick with tears. 

He lowers his eyes and she thinks she can see a flash of guilt, gone as soon as it appeared. “From experience,” he says quietly. “Peter and I… We’ve had encounters.”

Allison blinks, for a moment unable to believe what she just heard. “You slept with Peter?” 

He flinches, pulling away from her. “Allison, I—”

“You- you _hypocrite_ ,” Allison’s words come out in a hiccup, a jumbled mixture of a sob and laughter. “Whatever happened to—‘Another werewolf?’ Showing him your guns?” 

It feels a little like a ball unraveling inside her chest, the sudden realization that Peter’s groan about how Argent was going to kill him in a completely different light. 

Her dad looks pained, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Allison, I am—I am not involved with him.”

“So what? He’s just a booty call?” 

Her dad is blushing, actually _blushing_ and Allison feels laughter bubbling inside her, feels lighter already. 

“Allison,” he says his voice a little strained. “I would rather not discuss my private affairs of that particular nature with you.” 

That part of her that’s spent too much time around Stiles wants to blurt out ‘what, you don’t want to compare notes?’, but instead she just nods. She’s not blind or stupid - her dad is an attractive man in his prime, it’s only natural he’d want... companionship, with her mother gone for so long already. 

And speaking about comparing notes… “Dad, are _you_ okay? After - after what happened between you and Lydia?” 

He closes his eyes. “I - I would rather not talk about that, either, Allison.”

There’s guilt in his tone, guilt in his words and she remembers the bruises on Lydia’s knees, remembers how she’d limped despite looking like the cat who got the cream. She flushes when she remembers seeing Lydia just as smug with her hair spread on the pillow after she -

“She’s a banshee, Dad,” she reminds him gently. She doesn’t have to spell it out, the same reassurance. “She’s _Lydia_ .

“We’ll be okay.” 

And Allison means it, when she clings to her father on the couch, the expensive whiskey sitting nearly untouched on the coffee table. They will be okay, all of them. They hunt _literal monsters_ , the fact that she’s shared bed partners with her Daddy barely pings on the radar of _wrong_ in her life.

She reaches for the glass and he raises his eyebrows, as if she hasn’t been old enough to drink in France for years now. 

“Don’t drink it so fast, Princess,” he cautions her when she takes a sip, as he watches her lick her lips to catch the aftertaste. “It’s meant to be savored.”

He takes the glass from her and she doesn’t resist, doesn’t tell him to get his own. He takes a sip, a slow, lingering one before he puts the glass back down on the table so gentle there’s barely a sound. 

Allison flushes, the memory of how Peter licked his lips _after_ coming to mind. Somehow, the way her father appreciated whiskey reminds her of what the wolf looked like with his face wet from eating her out and she closes her eyes, embarrassed. 

Deaton said there should be no lingering side effects. It must be that she’s just - keyed up, from having been with someone for the first time in so long. Just because she knows her dad is a silver fox - Lydia’s words, not hers - and their family is definitely Lannister levels of _fucked up_ doesn’t mean ...that. 

She reaches for the glass again, takes another sip; this time, her dad takes the glass from her hand, drinks, and gives it back to her. They pass it back and forth until it’s all gone, the last lingering drops clinging to the smooth surface until she dips her tongue into the rim, chasing the last bit of the burn. 

He pulls the glass away and sets it on the table; Allison closes her eyes and leans against him. She’s exhausted, the warmth from the whiskey gathering in her belly as the tension slowly dissipates in her body. She’s just going to rest her eyes for a moment - 

Next thing she’s aware of is being lifted up in strong arms, gathered up against her Daddy’s chest. ‘He smells so nice, she thinks hazily as he carries her to her room and lays her down on the bed, a little whimper escaping her lips when she loses his warmth. 

“Gotta take your shoes off, Princess,” he says so softly she can barely hear it; she lays there limp when he tugs the booties and socks off, when he drags up a blanket to cover her with.

He pulls away and Allison whines, bereft. “Don’t go Daddy…” 

The last thing she’s conscious of is her Daddy’s lips brushing against her forehead. 

****

Chris knows he should go to bed, should take a cold shower to cool down; he should not go back downstairs and disregard his own advice as he pours three fingers of Macallan and knocks it back in one go. 

His hands shake as he lowers the glass; he pours another three fingers, then puts the bottle away as he takes a slower sip, still too fast for such a good drink. 

Allison is asleep upstairs, and a part of him is cursing himself a fool for coming down, for not letting her pull him into her bed, where he could gather her in his arms and - 

The thought is squashed ruthlessly, as it always is. He is well aware of his failings as a father, as a man, ever since Victoria’s passing. Allison might be the matriarch, his to serve and his to take care of, but she should be his daughter first no matter what any twisted urge inside him tells him. 

He had no illusions that his - arrangement with Peter Hale has been in part to make sure he never acts on his stray thoughts, never puts his eyes where they don’t belong. But after today, after letting go with Lydia and using her to slake himself like he’s yearned for a long time now, it feels like the fire has been stoked back to life again. 

Forcing Lydia to divulge intimate details of what she’d done with Allison, not making Peter _shut up_ for real when he’d started to talk about what he’d done to her, is painting pictures in his mind’s eye he cannot banish easily, bringing up thoughts he should not harbor. 

He’d wanted to kiss those tears away from his daughter’s face, to tell her it will be okay, that Daddy would take care of her. He’d wanted to carry her upstairs and into his own bed, strip her bare and touch her to erase every thought of Peter _fucking_ Hale from her head. 

The whiskey only burns, doesn’t numb him when he empties the glass and barely resists the urge to throw it across the room to shatter against the wall. 

He can still hear her words, _I’m proud of us_ echoing in his head. He remembers that moment with aching clarity, when she’d stood before him as the matriarch with her silver arrowheads. What he’d wanted more than anything in that moment was to kiss her - and not a fatherly peck on the forehead or even the lips. No, he’d wanted to kiss her like a man kisses a woman, wanted to lift her up on the worktable and _devour_ her. 

Chris closes his eyes and tries to center himself, tries to even out his breathing. He can still remember the abject horror he’d felt when the Oni struck her, the frantic rush to the hospital, the weeks spent at her bedside. It should have driven this darkness away from him, should have made her his daughter and only his daughter again. 

She is like the phoenix risen from the ashes, a shining beacon in the darkness of the wretched world they live in and he _wants._

By the time he’s set the alarm and other security measures and gone through the rest of his evening routine, he’s feeling a little calmer; in part because the whiskey has had time to kick in, to ease the tension between his shoulderblades and makes it easier to close his eyes when he finally lays down. He knows sleep will come quickly, both his mind and body pushed hard by everything that’s happened today. 

His last thought is a fleeting hope he won’t dream. 

_Her skin looks so pale against the sheets, her hair a red halo around her head as she writhes against the dark satin, whimpering in need. He watches as she spreads her legs, baring her wet cunt to his gaze, her hole already red and open._

_He can see the pearly white oozing out of her, can see the signs of rough use; he’s hard already and he reaches down to stroke a hand over his cock, to match the rhythm of her tiny whimpers._

_There’s a moment and suddenly she’s not alone any more, another girl joining her on the bed; not pale but fair, long dark hair surrounding her heart-shaped face that’s achingly familiar._

_They both are._

_Chris watches as Allison moves to straddle Lydia’s face, as his daughter presses her glistening cunt against her best friend’s mouth and cries out in ecstasy._

_Allison’s hands grip Lydia’s hair tight as she grinds down, eyes closed and head thrown back as she chases an orgasm, the redhead’s face wet with her excitement. Her breasts bounce with every thrust of her hips, the beautiful arch of her back just begging for a pair of hands to encircle the dip of her waist and pull her back on his cock._

_“That’s it, make her feel good,” he murmurs without meaning to, the words escaping his lips before he can bite them back, before he can let himself be horrified at the obscene tableau in front of him._

_As if hearing his words Lydia moans and spreads her knees wider. Her hands come up to pinch her own nipples till they’re red and swollen, aching for a mouth to soothe and suckle on them till she’s screaming, so sensitive once she’s been bred up._

_Allison’s moans get more desperate, the movements of her hips more urgent as she rubs against Lydia’s lush mouth, desperate for release. She’s so close, he can see it in how her thighs quiver and her breath comes in short greedy pants._

_“Daddy please,” Allison’s words hit him hard, curl around his spine at the pit of his belly. “Need you, Daddy - “_

_Chris takes a step forward-_

“Daddy-” 

Chris is a hunter first and foremost - the sound cuts through the haze of sleep and lust, wrenching him awake. 

That sound - Allison - he’d left her door open when he left her room, the sound carrying in the dark - another small noise that sounds like she’s in pain, and Chris is on his feet and out of the room following it, heedless of how hard he is in his sleep pants.

In a few quick strides he’s at her door, pushing it all the way open, scanning the room for threats. There is nothing, only silver moonlight streaming through the open blinds to cascade over the bed where Allison lies.

“Daddy -” the word passes her lips again, soft and sleepy; it’s clear that she’s still asleep, that she’s _dreaming_ and not in pain, her long lashes ghosting against her pale cheeks. 

Desire grips Chris, nearly sending him to his knees as he takes in the sight of her, her mouth parted in a hungry moan, one small hand wedged between her legs to press against her core. She’s kicked off her jeans and covers and all he can see is the length of a pale thigh, the hint of white fabric. 

She whimpers again, “Please, Daddy, it hurts-” 

He wants. Dear God, he _wants_ , he wants to step forward into the room and go to her, tell her Daddy’s here and will make it all better. He wants to kiss the moans from her lips, wants to take her by the hand and pull her fingers away so he can replace them with his own, press his palm against her panties and feel how wet she is for him, how much she wants her Daddy. 

A bone-deep shudder goes through him as he stands rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from her. He’s acutely aware of his own arousal, of how hard he is at the sight of his daughter in the throes of ecstasy, every little noise from her lips making his cock throb with need. 

She looks like - she looks like she’s close, her hips moving frantically even in her sleep, her hand clenched between her thighs. He wants nothing more than to stay, to watch her come with a cry of _Daddy_ on her lips. 

Chris grits his teeth and turns away, closing the door as quietly as he can. His hands are shaking, every step he takes away from her door and towards his own room slow, deliberate agony. He knows if he concentrated he could still hear her, even over the hammering of his heartbeat in his ears but he is not - he’s - 

He is a _hunter_. He is not a monster. 

The door to his bedroom clicks shut with grave finality. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing his body to calm down, to force his heartbeat down. He hasn’t made such a futile attempt in decades, his calm completely shattered. Any ability to compartmentalize is gone in the wake of Allison’s voice crying out for him, at the thought of his daughter wanting - 

Chris groans and lets his head fall against the door with a quiet thud. He knows what he is doing is wrong on so many levels, something a good man would never do - but he is far too aware of his own failings, of just how much of a monster he is under the veneer of the hunt. 

What he ought to do is to go drown the unwanted ardor with a cold shower; he should _not_ slide a hand into his pants, wrap his palm around his cock, already wet with precome. It’s still too dry but he’s beyond caring, jerking himself with quick, harsh strokes. 

He’s breathing fast and hard, his chest burning with the lack of oxygen even as the memory of Allison in her bed flashes past his eyes. It doesn’t take much for the memory of her voice moaning out _Daddy_ like a siren of legend to send him over the edge, his release punched out of him with a stifled cry. 

Chris bites his lip bloody to not call out her name as he fills his palm with his seed, the rush of adrenaline and endorphins enough to make him weak at the knees, make him slump against the door and slowly sink to the floor. 

He doesn’t remember passing out. 

***


End file.
